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I watch the image as one would watch Mona Lisa in Louvre. All those stars and galaxies sparkling like the priceless quality of diamonds and gems, scattered on the darkest and the softest shade of black velvet. Once, when I was 9, I had a crush on a boy a year older than me, and he asked me if I believed in aliens with the restless expression of a person confessing their love. It was the weirdest question I'd ever been asked until then, so I said I never thought about it. Did I believe in the possibility of us not being alone in the universe? No, not even then, though it didn't prevent me from buying a book titled U.F.O.s from a second-hand bookstore to make conversation. Still, I never read it, other than turning its pages absent-mindedly when the mood struck, pondering maybe my crush was poorly placed. But here I am, 24 years later, looking at a high-quality picture brimming with galaxies from 13.7 billion light years ago, which represents the size of a sand grain compared to the rest of the universe, and it slaps my arrogance right on the face for thinking there isn't more to life than whatever the hell we’ve been doing on Earth all this time, never really contemplating that I’m an insignificant dot in an expanding universe full of insignificant dots, all of which are bigger than me a planet size or two, and I'm surprised, and kind of glad that I knew a 10-year-old boy once, who felt the imminency of a crowd in the universe more than not having someone close enough to touch him to confirm his existence in his home planet.